One Virgin Too Many

by Lindsey Davis

  And from the house stepped Aelianus. He looked startled when he saw Terentia, but what he had to say was too urgent to put off.

  “Falco, you ought to come.” I was already on my feet. “The vigiles have just delivered Scaurus here, and everyone is going absolutely wild. It seems more than just a quarrel. If they aren’t stopped, I think somebody is going to be killed.”

  I picked up the dog and ran.

  LIV

  THE FUROR was occurring in the atrium. Very traditional. The center of a true Roman house. The hearth, the pool (still dry, in this instance), and the household gods.

  There were people everywhere. The first one I recognized was Anacrites. He was vainly attempting to shepherd slaves and builders away from the fuss, while they tried to push past him and ogle. Aelianus joined in, shoving the crowd back down a corridor.

  “Anacrites! Quickly—what’s happening?”

  “Madness! The vigiles brought the son—”

  “Scaurus?”

  “Yes. I had just arrived and was attempting to gain admittance to see the ex-Vestal.” His eyes lingered upon Terentia. “The old man had come to argue with me. When he saw his son, apparently under arrest, Numentinus seemed to have expected it. He was furious. He went at Scaurus, berating him, saying that Scaurus had only had to do what he had been told, and everything could have been sorted out. I don’t know what Scaurus’ orders were—”

  “To keep quiet!” Terentia elaborated. Then she fumed, “Numentinus could have done the same.”

  Anacrites obviously guessed who she was, and still thought she was the lunatic who had killed Ventidius. He looked nervous; I no longer was. I had no time to explain. “Then a woman rushed in,” he told me. “The son yelled at her—he was demanding, what had she said to get him brought here like this? She went hysterical—”

  “Falco—” Terentia began urgently.

  “It’s Laelia—yes, I understand.” I gave her a straight look. I needed to hear no more. I shoved the dog into Anacrites’ arms. If Nux bit him, so much the better. I rushed ahead into the atrium. Terentia Paulla was close on my heels.

  They were all there. Numentinus appeared to have had some kind of seizure. Caecilia Paeta was bending over the elderly man, trying to fan his face with her hands. Ariminius was on the floor. He had blood all over him, though I could not see where he was hurt. He was alive, though curled up and gasping; he needed help, and in the next few minutes.

  A couple of vigiles were trying to drag Scaurus to safety while his sister Laelia wielded the late Flaminica’s sacrificial knife. Laelia must have snatched it from the shrine. I cursed myself for having ever left it there. Athene, Gaia’s horse-faced nurse, was making a brave attempt to hold Laelia back; she must share the duties of caring for and guarding the lunatic. In great danger herself, she was nonetheless hanging on although Laelia was fighting her off with obscenities and violence. As I approached, Laelia started beating the nurse, luckily with her free hand, not the one that held the knife. Athene acquired yet more bruises on top of those she had had when I interviewed her, yet she doggedly took the punishment.

  Every time his sister lunged near enough to Scaurus, she stabbed at him wildly. Instead of retreating, Scaurus was waving his arms at her, and yelling. He was fueling her agitation. It almost looked deliberate.

  One of the watch fastened both arms around Scaurus from behind and would have carried him off backwards, but a fierce knife stroke from Laelia slashed into the man’s forearm, and he let go, cursing and pouring with blood. Another vigilis rushed to support his wounded colleague and pull him away from danger.

  Caecilia Paeta now saw what was happening. With a scream, she left the old man and ran to her husband, crying at Scaurus to stop before he was killed. Oblivious, Scaurus only concerned himself with goading his sister. She looked radiant, exultantly jeering at him, and encouraging him to risk himself on the wide sweeps of the wicked bronze knife. She tossed Athene to one side; the poor girl fell heavily, and as I broke through the crowd I signaled her to keep away.

  Caecilia had caught at the front of Scaurus’ clothing, trying to deter him from approaching his crazy sister. With great determination, his still-loyal wife hung on to him and held him back. Nobody else seemed willing to help.

  “Dear gods, what a mess!”

  I keep a dagger in my boot. Half the time I never used it, and it would not achieve much now. I was the only person here who would have any sort of weapon, except possibly Anacrites, and he was still in poor health, unreliable in a ruck. This was a household of priests; for them, swords were what antique heroes hung up in temple sanctums prettily adorned with laurel twigs. Even the vigiles, as civil troops, are unarmed. So it was up to me.

  Laelia was now really raving. Apart from Athene’s and Caecilia’s efforts, only his sister’s uncontrolled mania had saved Scaurus from real harm. Nobody dared approach her, but she had no aim and only half an intention. Flecks of froth showed around her mouth. A manic grin was transfixed on her flushed face. She was dancing from foot to foot, swinging the knife to left and right. So far, she appeared not to want to harm herself, but I felt that could come at any moment.

  I, of course, am a correct Roman. I do not fight women. This was a problem. I would have to disarm Laelia, and then rapidly overpower her. Her grip on the knife was so tight her knuckles shone white.

  I leaped across the hall, vaulting the dry pool, to where the workmen had stored their equipment. I snatched up a piece of rough wood that they probably used as scaffolding. Sensing a new situation, Laelia started screaming repeatedly. Other people were shouting. Scaurus suddenly stopped struggling, so Caecilia let go of him.

  Scaurus threw open his arms as if to embrace Laelia.

  Abruptly she stood still. “Cutting his throat was not enough,” she told Scaurus. Her calm was even more unnerving than her previous violence. She could have been explaining why she had changed the daily bakery delivery. Everyone else froze in horror. “The man’s entrails should have been examined for omens. The liver should have been offered to the gods.”

  I started walking towards her. “So it was you who killed Uncle Tiberius?” I asked, trying to distract her. “Why did you do that, Laelia?”

  She turned in my direction. “He stopped wanting me. Aunt Terentia made him stay away—he should not have listened to her. I held the bowl!” she exclaimed. Something that had always bothered me began to make sense.

  “I realize how hard it must have been.” I was managing to move in closer. “Ventidius had thrashed around trying to escape. He fell outside, through the wall of the tent. He landed on the grass. The rest must have been extremely awkward.” I kept stepping forward gently. I was nearly there.

  “You know, don’t you?” Laelia demanded of me. “It’s not like sacrificing an animal, is it? Anyway, the priest has assistants. Tiberius was lying on the ground. It was very difficult to put the bowl under his throat—”

  It was impossible for one to manage. At the ritual sacrifice of Ventidius Silanus, two people must have officiated. As realization dawned it must have shown on my face. While Laelia was watching me, Scaurus decided to get to her.

  “Keep away,” I warned him urgently. Laelia’s gaze flickered wildly between us; Scaurus hesitated. The people watching had fallen very quiet, and were at last all standing still. “Leave it to me, Scaurus.”

  Laelia turned to me and said clearly, “I could not have done it. I was never taught how—but my brother had been trained in what a flamen has to do, so he knew. Scaurus said, if the knife is sharp, it’s easier than you think!”

  Scaurus came at her ahead of me. He grabbed her wrist. As everyone kept telling me, the man was an idiot. He had grabbed the wrist nearest to him—not the one holding the knife. Laelia spun, actually pivoting more easily because her other arm was held. She brought around her free hand, trying to carve a stroke across his neck. She was hopeless too. She drew blood from his shoulder, but he leaped back out of harm’s way.

  S
uddenly I was free to act. Safely at arm’s length, I brought the stave down on Laelia’s knife hand as hard as possible. The weapon jerked from her grasp and skidded away across the hall mosaic. She hardly seemed to feel it. She was going from us now; her mind was visibly wandering.

  I got to her. I had turned the stave, as if intending to hold her at bay with it. I managed to extend one end beyond Laelia just as Scaurus bent and retrieved their mother’s sacrificial knife. I was ready for him. I flung an arm around Laelia and dragged her back away from him. Nobody else seemed to have any idea of the danger she was in. She knew least of all; that made it even more dangerous.

  Sobbing wildly now, Laelia grabbed at the stave suddenly and hampered my movements. While I shook her off, somebody whipped past me in a blur of gray. Terentia Paulla stepped past her mad niece just as Scaurus, her equally mad nephew, squared up to kill Laelia.

  “You!” cried Terentia, in complete exasperation. “It was bad enough thinking that your ridiculous sister killed him—but you helped her!”

  “He was an animal,” said Scaurus.

  I hurled Laelia as far from me as possible and turned to protect Terentia. There was no need.

  The furious ex-Vestal let fly at her nephew with a straight-armed, right-handed punch that came all the way from the shoulder. I heard his jaw crack. His head jerked back. Scaurus looked at the ceiling abruptly. Then he went down.

  LV

  EVERYONE FELL ON the various victims.

  I muttered in an undertone to Terentia, “Dare I ask where you learned the knockout blow? From one of the Vestals’ lictors, preparing you for married life with Ventidius?”

  “Instinct!” she snapped. “I can supervise here. Now, Falco—find Gaia!”

  She turned to where Anacrites was still standing with my dog in his arms. Unusually for her, Nux had retained her interest in a trophy. Her white teeth firmly gripped the little horsehair mop—surely the one the builder had made for Gaia.

  Feeling stupid, Anacrites put the dog down, and she ran to sit in front of me, wagging her unhygienic stump of tail against the floor mosaic.

  “What is it, Nux?”

  I bent down and took the mop from between her jaws. Being Nux, she clung on for some time, growling happily and shaking her find while I tugged it free. She started to bark.

  “Good girl.” When she saw that I was now prepared to notice her, she began running around in wide circles in front of me. I followed. Nux took off and streaked back the way we had come from the garden. Whenever she reached the corner of a corridor, she stopped and barked. It was a harsh, high, piercing noise, meant to hold my attention. Nothing like her normal pointless woof.

  I had left everyone behind as I strode after my excited pet. She nosed her way along passageways and through doorways, looking back sometimes to check that I was still with her. “Good girlie! Show me, Nux.”

  Out into the kitchen garden went the dog. Past the seat where so little time ago I had been talking to Terentia. Through the newly dug beds, under the despoiled pergolas, into the brambles and tangled creepers that ran back to the high wall.

  Yesterday we were supposed to have searched everywhere, even here. Slaves with scythes had hacked at the creepers. I had trodden down parts of the undergrowth myself. I had told some of the helpers to crawl into the thickets.

  Not good enough, Falco. There was a place where an angle of the boundary wall turned away. Bushes shielded it from obvious view nowadays, but it had once had a purpose. In fairness to me, I had seen someone else exploring this area yesterday. But it is never safe to rely on other people. In a real emergency, you must double-check every inch of ground yourself. Never mind if your helpers grow fractious because it looks as if you do not trust them. Never mind if you exhaust yourself. Nobody else is truly trustworthy. Not even when, like you, they know a child’s life is at stake.

  Nux was going crazy now. She had reached a small clearing, where stonework had defied the encroaching undergrowth. This might be where Nux had found the mop. Gaia had definitely been playing here. Somehow, she had even managed to make herself a fire. Perhaps she spent hours rubbing sticks together to do it; more likely she took some embers from the burning garden rubbish nearer the house. The ashes of her mock Vestal fire, cold now, of course, formed a neat circle. They were quite clearly different from the great mounds of garden clippings, and if anyone had shown me these yesterday, I would have tracked down the child there and then.

  I spotted a kitchen pitcher, lying on its side.

  Nux ran to the pitcher, sniffed at it, then ran past and lay down with her nose between her paws, whining frantically.

  “Well done, Nuxie; I’m coming.”

  I could see what had happened. Little hands had pulled back a curtain of weeds to discover an old flight of four or five shallow stone steps. Ferns grew in crevices and green slime lurked on the lower slabs. Anyone familiar with springs would realize that this had once been a source of water, though it must have been an inconvenient distance from the house. Even a six-year-old girl, if she was bright and capable, would work out what she had found; then, forbidden to trouble the kitchen staff, she might try to see if she could fill her pitcher here. The steps led to the head of a well shaft. When it went out of use, it must have been boarded over. Over the years, the boards had rotted. So when Gaia tried to move them or walk on them, some gave way and fell into the shaft. Gaia must have gone down with them.

  I knelt at the edge. I leaned over too far, and a sharp rattle of stones frightened me; the edge was crumbling perilously. All I could see was darkness. I called out. Silence. She had drowned or been killed by the fall. Nux began to bark again, with that terrible sharp yowking noise. I gripped the dog and held her. I could feel under her warm rib cage that she was panting as fast as I. My heart was breaking.

  “Gaia!” I yelled down the echoing shaft.

  And then from the impenetrable darkness a faint whimper answered me.

  LVI

  I WAS STILL debating how to get help when a voice nearby cried my name.

  “Aulus! Over here—quickly.”

  My new partner might be a spoiled, surly senator’s son, but he knew how to stick with the most urgent job in hand. Alone of the crowd in the atrium he had bothered to follow me. I heard him curse as he crashed towards me through the bushes, snagging his tunic or scratching himself on thorns.

  “Gently,” I warned in a low voice, before I turned back and called down, “Gaia! Don’t move. We’re here now.”

  Aelianus had reached me. He took in the situation rapidly, pointed downwards with his index finger to ask if that was where the child was, then silently grimaced.

  “We need help,” I groaned. “We need Petronius Longus. Only the vigiles are equipped for this. I want you to go and fetch them. I’ll stay with the child and try to keep her calm. Tell Petro the situation.” I was crouched back at the shaft, examining it. “Say this: The well looks deep; the child sounds a long way down; she is alive, but very weak. I reckon she has been down there over two days. Someone will have to go down to her. It looks a pig’s arse.”

  “Very difficult?” interpreted Aelianus primly.

  “We need ropes primarily, but also any other useful equipment the vigiles can come up with.”

  “Lights,” he suggested

  “Yes. Above all, we need the stuff fast.”

  “Right.” He was moving off.

  “Aulus, listen—I want you to go yourself. Don’t be sidetracked at the house.”

  “I won’t go that way,” he said. “Leg me up. I’ll shin over this wall. Then I’ll be in the street and straight off.”

  “Good thinking. You’re almost at the Fourth Cohort headquarters.” I started giving him directions while we tackled shunting him up and over the tall wall at the end of the property. He was no lightweight. Next time I chose a partner I would go for a thin, half-starved one.

  “Jove! Falco, this job of yours seems to consist entirely of climbing into and out of places�
�� .”After a few groans and compaints he was off. I heard him thump down on the other side, then his footsteps at once ran off. He was certainly athletic. He must exercise somewhere, some rich boys’ gym with a high joining fee and a fitness instructor who looked like a Greek god slathered in dripping.

  I should have known somebody else would not miss out on a crisis: Anacrites was the next to turn up. I showed him the layout, told him not to cause panic, and asked him to go back indoors and fetch torches.

  “And ropes, surely, Falco.”

  “If you can find any. Not much hope of it as a Flamen Dialis is forbidden to see anything that indicates binding. But ask the builders to bring out any wood they have that could be used for supports.”

  He pottered off. Sometimes he was sensible. In an hour or two he might find me an oil lamp and a piece of string.

  I sat down by the well, Nux fretting beside me; I began to talk in a reassuring voice to the invisible Gaia. “Don’t answer, sweetheart. I’m just talking to you so you know that I’m still here. People have gone to fetch equipment so we can lift you out.”

  I was starting to wonder how we could do that. The more I viewed the situation, the more difficult it looked.

  *

  I heard the welcome voice of Petronius Longus on the far side of the wall just as Anacrites returned. It had seemed an age. Soon the vigiles were raising ladders. Anacrites shouted out to them, then he joined me. We were about two feet below ground level, on the last step. He had brought out a couple of flares, ready lit, and one short length of filthy rope that the builders had been using for some halfhearted purpose. Straightaway I tied one of the torches to the end of the rope and tried lowering it down the well. I had to stand, leaning forwards above the shaft. Anacrites lay out flat beside me, peering over into the murk.

  “The side walls are in bad condition. Keep going,” he urged. The flickering light revealed only a small area. When the rope was all played out we still had not seen Gaia. “Not good news,” muttered Anacrites in a low voice to me. He sat up again, but he stayed there, ready for another go. His tunic was covered with dirt. Ma would have a good flap over that when he went home. Still, he could say he had been out with her rascal son.